


tears in the screen door

by mnabokov



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, M/M, Size Difference, Underage Sex, fish tank au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8359183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: Charles, young and insatiable, wants to graduate as valedictorian of his class, wants to go to Oxford University, and wants Erik Lehnsherr, who just happens to be his friend's stepfather.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the kinkmeme found [here](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7761.html?thread=15413841#t15413841). Title from The Wonder Years' "Passing Through a Screen Door."

Scott Summers’ car is a beat-up thing, its engine spluttering pathetically as Scott peels out of the school’s dirt parking lot.

Charles Xavier sits in the backseat, behind Alex Summers, who sits in the passenger seat.

The car rumbles underneath Charles as they speed off the school campus, clouds of dust swirling in their wake.

The dust is everywhere, no matter the time, no matter the season. It’s packed into the earth to form the school’s dirt parking lot. It covers Scott’s car, a thin layer over the windshield, impossible to remove. It ghosts over the concrete pavements that run through the school and section off the campus into neat grids. Sometimes, when Charles walks from the math building to the science building, the dust settles on his skin, gritty and grainy, sticking to his sweat.

The gray buildings of their high school blur into the browns and taupes of the endless suburban landscape -- dry bushes, yellowing detritus, and scattered shrubbery -- as Scott drives on. As they hurtle down the road, the engine groans under the weight of the car’s three teenaged occupants, and the lopsided tires pound rhythmically against winding asphalt roads. Charles tugs at his shirtsleeve. Sweat sticks to the ring of his collar.

The silence is thick and uncomfortable; Charles wants to say something but thinks better of it. His accent wouldn’t fit here, not in this beat-up car racing down an empty road that stretches miles and miles either way, connecting dull neighborhood after dull neighborhood in the epitome of American suburbia. Something in the back of Charles’ mind murmurs, _and you don’t fit here either, a British boy in the middle of the American dream,_ but Charles ignores it, the way he has for the past few years. Charles says nothing.

“I’ll just drop you guys off,” Scott say suddenly, breaking the silence into two clean halves.

Charles lifts his head in time to see Alex turn to face his older brother.

“Why,” Alex demands almost instantaneously.

“I’m busy,” Scott answers, eyes fixed on the road.

“Busy doing what,” counters Alex.

Charles can hear the tight clench of Scott’s teeth when Scott replies, “Doesn’t matter.”

Alex is still grumbling under his breath when they reach the ashen driveway of the Summers’ home. Alex swings the passenger door open, shutting it with a resounding slam.

“Thank you for driving us back,” Charles remembers to add as he gets out of the car, passing by the driver seat’s window.

Scott grunts, tugs his sunglasses further down on his nose.

“Come on,” Alex says lowly, throwing his brother one last glare as the older Summers boy pulls out of the driveway, gravel crunching under rubber tires. “He’s probably just meeting up with Jean.”

As Alex tugs Charles up the driveway, the heat of the concrete rises up to meet them, sharp and hot and sweltering. Charles blinks rapidly and holds a hand over his eyes.

“He’ll be back soon enough,” Alex adds, “But for now it’s just my -- it’s just us and Erik.”

“Erik,” Charles says, and he means to phrase it like a question but it comes out as a tired echo.

“Yeah,” Alex fumbles with his keys for a moment as they stop at the door. Alex pauses, his keys swinging slightly between his fingers, “My stepdad,” he says finally. Alex shoves the key into the door with a little more force than necessary, and Charles thoughtfully looks away.

On the outside, Alex’s house is square and squat, single-story, off-white paint peeling slightly around the edges, window shutters drawn shut. On the inside, it’s pretty much the same -- plain and neat, but slightly disheveled. The air is slightly cooler inside, and a few slivers of light leak through the drawn window shutters.

Charles thinks that the entire house feels _tired_ , its brown carpet worn, brown furniture wrinkled, wallpaper tattered in some places. The taste of dust lingers at the back of Charles’ mouth.

Alex heads down a shrouded hallway and Charles follows obediently, shifting his grip on his backpack as he does so. He’s not exactly sure what to do here; Charles and Alex are friends, he supposes, but Charles can never hope to be as close to him as Darwin is.

The darkness of the house is a quiet relief from the glare of the sun. Alex says nothing as they head into what Charles presumes is his bedroom.

The shutters are drawn tightly shut to block out the relentless sunlight, and the room looks like any other room in the house.

At first, it isn’t obvious that Alex shares the room with his brother, but Charles manages to pick out a few titles that he knows the American Lit teacher at their school always assigns, the dark green spine of a calculus textbook.

Alex’s things are tossed haphazardly across the carpet, lacrosse gear hanging out of his drawers, his bed unmade and a crooked movie poster for _The Truman Show_ pinned to the wall. It’s the first time that Charles has been to Alex’s house, the former realizes. It’s a little strange since Charles and Alex hardly ever talk outside of class, but Charles doesn’t mind.

Alex collapses on his bed with a loud sigh and Charles gingerly picks his way through Alex’s things, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The phone rings as soon as Charles sinks into the mattress, the ringtone tinny and metallic, ringing throughout the house.

Alex ignores it. He rolls over and grabs his backpack from where he’d tossed it onto the floor, rummaging for the project outline that Ms. MacTaggert had given them the day before.

Charles quickly does the same, shuffling through his papers until he finds his biology folder. There’s a sketch of an insect on the front of Charles’ folder that he doesn’t remember doodling in. Hank, probably, Charles thinks.

And then he remembers spending many sunny afternoons in the back of the Xaviers’ garden, trying to escape the sickening silence of an empty house. He remembers himself, no more than twelve years old, poking at exoskeletons of desiccated bugs in the dirt, a lonely boy in the middle of a gray and brown suburban sprawl, longing for _more_.

The call goes to the answering machine, and suddenly Charles’ chest aches around an inexplicable hollow feeling in his chest.

Charles doesn’t have long to think about it, however, because Alex throws a stack of notes at Charles’ head.

“Hey!” Charles protests indignantly, but his mouth is curling into a smile even as Alex hoots in laughter, their project forgotten.

Scott is still out and so, naturally, Charles sits in Scott’s chair, tries on Scott’s football gear, much to Alex’s amusement.

Charles is drowning in Scott’s football jersey, a laugh rumbling low in his belly -- the thing nearly comes down to his knees. Alex guffaws, snapping a picture with his phone. In the stretch of carpet that separates Scott’s half of the room from Alex’s, the two of them have upended a dusty box that normally rests underneath Scott’s bed. A storm of crinkled letters covers the floor.

Alex snatches one up and reads one aloud. “Jean,” Alex pitches his voice low, furrowing his eyebrows. He reaches up with the hand not holding the letter and adjusts Scott’s football helmet from where it rests precariously on his head.

Charles snorts artlessly and reaches out to grab Alex’s lacrosse helmet, tugs it on. The two of them grin stupidly at each other.

“Jean,” Alex continues, squinting at the letter in an attempt to decipher Scott’s handwriting, “I know we’ve talked about this before, but ever since our Geometry class together freshmen year -- ” Alex lets go of the helmet to clutch at his heart dramatically. “I can’t help but -- ”

Alex sways theatrically to further emphasize the gamut of Scott’s affections and, in the process, Scott’s helmet -- two sizes too big for Alex -- falls over his eyes with a clunk.

Charles laughs, clutching his stomach and falling back onto Scott’s unmade bed. The sleeves of Scott’s football jersey pool around Charles’ elbows as he reaches up to dab at his eyes through the metal bars of the helmet. Alex is still reading enthusiastically when they hear the slam of a car door.

The two of them freeze.

There’s a sharp click as the front door unlocks and Alex hisses, “Shit,” under his breath.

Charles hurls himself off Scott’s bed as Alex simultaneously dives for the love letters, their helmets colliding with a sharp _clack._

Laughter bubbles out of Charles’ chest as he falls back on his backside, and Alex shushes him half-heartedly, scrambling to pick up the letters.

“Shut up,” Alex says, but his face is red from suppressing laughter. The sound of a door slamming shut wafts into Alex’s room.

Charles bites his lip to keep from breaking out into laughter. He attempts to tug off the football jersey as Alex shoves the letters back underneath the bed. The too-big sleeves of the jersey catch on the lacrosse helmet and Charles falls on the floor, chest shaking with silent laughter.

“The helmet!” Alex breathes out, his hands warm and sweaty against Charles’ shoulder as he tries to help Charles remove Scott’s jersey. For some reason, Charles can’t stop laughing, even as he hears footsteps approaching Alex’s room; Alex can’t fully suppress his chortles either, and Charles imagines trying to stop the autumn rains after a summer of drought.

Both Charles and Alex’s cheeks are red with mirth when the bedroom door swings open.

(This is the first time.)

Scott’s football jersey and helmet are tossed carelessly on his bed; Charles is reclined across the carpet, propped up on his elbows in between Scott and Alex’s beds, and Alex has his head buried in his mattress to suppress the laughter that shakes his chest.

“Well,” says someone that decidedly is not Scott.

Charles’ head snaps up.

“Oh,” Alex croaks. “Hi, Erik.”

While Scott’s limbs are still lanky and his body gangly, his stepfather fills the entire doorway, his shoulders broad -- broader than Scott’s -- and his face dark. His shirt clings to his chest, the hem hanging over the outline of a belt, the waist of a pair of worn jeans.

“Hello, Mr. Summers,” Charles says belatedly, and a little breathlessly.

Alex’s stepfather glances at Charles, his expression unreadable. His eyes rake over Charles for a moment. “Lehnsherr,” the man corrects, before swinging his gaze back to Alex. Charles opens his mouth to apologize when the man juts out his chin in Charles’ direction. “Your friend?”

“Yeah -- um, yeah,” Alex says, and Charles clears his throat, straightening up and yanking his shirt down from where it has ridden up. “We’re just working on a project. Scott’s -- Scott’s working. This is -- ”

“Charles,” Charles says, “Charles Xavier.”

Lehnsherr lingers for a moment before waving a hand dismissively, moving out of the doorway. “Tell Scott that I left his mail on the countertop,” the man calls over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Alex says abruptly, and Charles blinks and looks at his friend. “About the,” Alex jerks his head in the direction of the doorway, “I didn’t think to tell you that we have different last names.” Alex looks like he wants to continue, but stops.

“It’s fine,” Charles grimaces, “I should’ve asked. I just assumed -- ”

Alex shrugs, sitting up. “He didn’t make us change our last names or anything so -- so we didn’t.”

Charles nods.

For a moment, silence hangs between them, each one of them lost in their own thoughts.

Then, Alex snorts loudly.

Charles startles, looks up at him.

Alex holds a wrinkled letter in his hands, his grin growing by the second.

Naturally, they don’t get anything done.

Charles half-heartedly tries to convince Alex to just give the project a look, Alex, come on, but the other boy refuses.

“We’ll worry about it later, Charles, we have three weeks,” Alex insists, then shoves a shoebox full of Scott’s belongings into Charles’ face.

The fan turns lazily above their heads as Charles lies supine on the floor. Afternoon melts into evening, the air quickly turning cool. Charles has opened one of Alex’s windows, letting in twilight’s zephyr and the quiet hum of suburban traffic. The pad of Charles’ right forefinger is coated in gray dust from where he ran his hand along the windowsill.

The Summers boy sits on the edge of his bed, his back facing Charles. A white lacrosse ball thumps against the wall, hitting Jim Carrey’s perfect teeth every single time Alex throws it against the movie poster.

It feels as though time has come to a halt -- as it so often does here -- in Alex’s room, the only signs of movement coming from the flicker of the fan blades whirring and the soft thump thump thump of Alex’s lacrosse ball against drywall.

“I want to graduate early,” Charles says suddenly, still staring upwards. There’s a brown stain in the corner of the room from water damage. Charles imagines the ceiling, pregnant with water, the slow _dripdripdrip_ onto the carpet.

Alex’s lacrosse ball hits the wall with another resounding _thump_.

“Alright,” Alex says, and the bed creaks as he shrugs. “You probably can.”

 _Thump. Thump._ And then, “Why?”

Charles sighs. The last dregs of sunlight cast hazy shadows onto Alex’s ceiling, the fan’s blades dull and amorphous in their shadows. “I want to get out of here,” Charles says finally. “I want to go out and do,” he pauses, “Do _more_ , I guess.”

The bed creaks again as Alex shrugs once more. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

“You can,” Alex says again, and Charles lets his eyes slide shut. Cars rumble by, their engines coughing and spluttering. _Thump. Thump._

Charles remembers pinning insects to a corkboard in his garage, his prepubescent fingers fumbling with dried exoskeletons and butterfly wings. He remembers spending hours under the sun, looking at the plants and the bugs and the garden. _Thump. Thump._ He remembers sunburnt skin and empty orange pill bottles lined up on windowsills; he remembers the silence and the sun-drenched pavements and the empty cul-de-sacs --

“I want to get out of this place,” Charles breathes, and it feels like a confession, the words rushing out of his mouth like spring water bubbling out of the earth.

 _Thump thump thump_.

Charles cracks open his eyes just in time to see the lacrosse ball bouncing across the carpet. Alex leans over the side of his bed, his mouth curled into a small smile. Charles thinks he sees sympathy in the other boy’s eyes.

“You can,” Alex says once more. “Graduate early and go to Oxnard -- ”

“Oxford,” Charles corrects absent-mindedly, sitting up and reaching out to scoop up the lacrosse ball. His chest squeezes tight for a moment, ribs constricting around his heart and for a second Charles can’t breathe --

“ -- and talk to everyone there about biology and genetics and shit,” Alex finishes. He holds out a hand for the ball. Charles exhales through his mouth, slowly, lets the breath fall from his lips like a flower unfurling.

“Perhaps,” Charles murmurs. He eyes the movie poster and flicks his wrist.

The lacrosse ball hits Jim Carrey smack in the middle of his forehead with a satisfying _thump_.

Scott comes back a little bit after that, smelling of popcorn and perfume, still wearing his maroon collar shirt that all the cinema employees wear. There’s a smear of lipstick on his neck but Charles wisely ignores it.

“Scott,” Alex growls, as the older brother collapses onto his bed. “Get up. You have to drive Charles home.”

“It’s fine,” Charles interjects quickly, “I can walk.”

Both of the Summers brothers glare at him for that, so Charles shuts up after that.

“Get Erik to drive him,” Scott says, rolling over and pulling a pillow over his head.

“Dickhead,” mutters Alex as he rises.

“What was that?” Scott replies, but his voice is muffled by the pillow covering his face.

“Dickhead!” Alex repeats, stalking out of the room.

“Sorry,” Charles says to Scott’s pillow-smothered face, then stands as well, follows Alex out of the room.

“Erik,” Alex calls out as he strides into the study.

“Did you just call your brother a dickhead,” Lehnsherr answers. He hunches over a desk, tapping away at a keyboard. The vestiges of daylight leak through his window shades.

“He deserved it,” Alex retorts, then asks, “Can you drive Charles home?”

Lehnsherr turns at this, turning in his swivel chair to look at where Charles and Alex stand in the doorway.

Even as the sun begins to set, the house is still warm and sweaty; Charles feels himself flush when Lehnsherr looks at Charles.

Lehnsherr’s eyes are unbelievably pale, even in the relative darkness of the room. However, the darkness can’t hide the lineaments of his face; Charles can make out faint lines around the man’s lips and eyes. Lehnsherr’s mouth presses into a thin line that makes Charles want to blurt out an apology.

Nevertheless, before Charles can say anything, Alex adds, “Scott won’t drive.”

And Lehnsherr is still looking at Charles, his countenance unreadable. Something tightens in Charles’ gut.

“Give me a minute,” the man says, turning away easily, and Charles clears his throat.

Charles collects his notes and his things from Alex’s room, careful not to disturb Scott, who snores into his pillow.

“I don’t see how you can sleep when he snores that loudly,” Charles remarks to Alex as the two of them walk down the hallway, to the front door.

“Right?” Alex shakes his head in disgust. “Honestly. What a pig.”

“Honestly,” Charles echoes.

The cool air kisses Charles’ skin -- the dip of his neck, his thin shoulders, the curve of his ankles. A dog barks in the distance and Alex waves to a neighbor strolling by. The somnolent evening is almost painfully peaceful, dreadfully quiet save for the occasional car that trundles by.

Alex leans against the second car in the driveway, another worn-down vehicle, its sheen long gone thanks to the relentless wind and ubiquitous dust. Charles assumes that it’s Lehnsherr’s car.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” Charles says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants. Briefly, Charles thinks of his own, empty house, his mother absconded to God knows where.

Alex snorts, throwing his head back to look up into the dusky sky that stares back down at him. “We got jack shit done.”

Charles shrugs. “Still.”

The front door shuts and Charles turns around to see Lehnsherr walking out of the house.

Even as he walks, the man takes in the dry grass of the lawn, the neighbor strolling along the warm, concrete pavement, Alex and Charles standing by his car, his eyes sweeping up and down the endless stretch of road, the endless row of bleak houses.

Lehnsherr’s keys jingle as he unlocks the driver’s seat, sliding into the car and popping open the lock so that Charles and Alex can pile in.

For the second time that day, Charles finds himself in the backseat, sitting behind Alex Summers.

“Did you guys get a lot of work done,” Lehnsherr says, not really forming his words into a question. When Charles glances a little to the left, Lehnsherr’s guiding his keys into the ignition, his fingers pale and slender against the jagged edges of his metal keys.

“Yeah,” Alex says, kicking his feet up onto the dashboard.

The engine grunts and gurgles before finally roaring into life. Lehnsherr bats at one of Alex’s knees and the boy lifts his legs, setting his feet back onto the floor of the car.

And then Lehnsherr shifts in his seat, right hand reaching up to grab the back of the passenger seat, right in front of Charles. As Lehnsherr turns, the thin material of his shirt tightens around his chest, cotton like a second-skin over the toned muscle of his chest.

“What’s it for then,” Lehnsherr says.

“Bio,” Alex snorts. And then, Alex says something about Sean Cassidy and a centrifuge, but Charles doesn’t really pay attention, because as Lehnsherr smoothly pulls the car out of the driveway, the man’s gaze catches on Charles and --

And then Lehnsherr turns his gaze to the rear windshield, past Charles and onto the road beyond.

Charles shifts in his seat, resisting the urge to shiver. Lehnsherr’s hand spans across the back of Alex’s seat, his fingers splayed. Lehnsherr’s hands have seen work, the skin around his knuckles worn and wrinkled, veins crisscrossing the back of his hand, nails cut short and blunt.

And then Lehnsherr switches the car to drive, pulling his hand back and placing both hands firmly on the wheel.

“Charles is really good at biology,” Alex offers, rolling down the passenger window. Warm air rushes in, ruffling Charles’ hair.

And Charles, who has remained silence for their exchange, looks up in time to catch Lehnsherr’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Even though Lehnsherr doesn’t say anything, his gaze invites a response.

“I’m decent,” Charles answers modestly.

“Top of the class,” Alex leans back in his seat. “Which is why I can slack off on this project.”

“Alex,” Lehnsherr says warningly, his voice low and dangerous.

“Kidding,” Alex says, although Charles isn’t sure if he is.

And here is when Charles jumps in to say, “It’s a right turn here, just down this road -- yes,” directing Lehnsherr underneath the highway bridge. “And you can just pull up there,” Charles nods to iron gates blocking off all entrance into the gated community. “I’ll walk in.”

Charles hastily grabs his bookbag and pops the door open. “Thank you, Mr. Lehnsherr,” he says. And then to Alex, “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Charles.”

Lehnsherr pulls away in a cloud of dust, tires squealing against the rough asphalt.

Charles punches in the pincode and the gates slide open with a shudder.

Around him, the sky is fading into pastel colors: pale pinks and soft blues and muted yellows. The air is warm against Charles’ skin, but he tugs his cardigan closer around himself regardless.

The walk back to the Xaviers’ home is brisk; Charles’ shoes scuff against the concrete pavement and the neighbor waves to him as she prunes her rose bushes.

Charles isn’t sure why he hadn’t let Lehnsherr drive him all the way back to his house, which is nestled in the very back of the community, but it probably had something to do with the perfectly kept lawn, greener than any natural grass should be, the perfectly polished windows, the fresh coat of paint redone every year to meet the homeowner association’s regulations.

Charles clears his throat, fishes around his backpack for his keys as he nears the house.

It doesn’t look like Sharon Xavier is home -- and if she is, Charles isn’t planning on disturbing her -- so Charles creeps into the house, heads into his room.

For the remainder of the evening, Charles buries himself in his books, marking this and that in his textbooks, highlighting his notes carefully.

It isn’t until much later that night when, ensconced in his sheets, Charles finally thinks of Alex’s stepfather again. Thick bands of moonlight slash across his bed and Charles turns onto his belly, his pillow rasping against his cheek.

Charles squeezes his eyes together as he runs one sweaty hand down his chest, fingers flicking lazily at a nipple before trailing down to slip under his waistband. His gut tightens in anticipation, and he drags one nail along the sensitive skin of his hip, teasingly close to his half-hard cock.

In his defense, Charles tries very, very hard to think of the normal things -- the imaginary curl of five fingers wrapping around his cock, hot tongues, wet mouths -- before thinking of Lehnsherr. Because, naturally, as soon as Charles tells himself, _don’t think of Lehnsherr_ , his traitorous mind conjures up an image of Alex’s stepfather, his pale lips and his sharp eyes and his enormous hands --

Charles’ hips twitch reflexively at that and he mashes his face into his pillow, cheeks burning red with a mixture of humiliation, shame, and guilt; and yet, but he can’t bring himself to stop. A breathy pant escapes from Charles’ mouth, wanton and needy.

In the dark, Charles fumbles with the drawer of his bedside cabinet, fingers scrambling for a moment before finally finding a cool bottle of lotion.

It’s not wrong, Charles tells himself, there’s nothing wrong with a fantasy.

Charles squirts the lotion in his hands, rubbing it between his palms to warm it up a bit before rolling back onto his stomach, cheeks burning. The cool slide of his fingers underneath his waistband elicits a shiver from Charles, his spine curling, muscles shuddering as he thinks of Lehnsherr once more.

Charles’ palm is slick when he finally wraps his hand around his hard cock, begins pumping roughly. Charles imagines Lehnsherr’s hands, large and tan, five fingers splayed across Charles’ pale thigh; Charles imagines running his hands down Lehnsherr’s back, down his chest, reveling in the muscles there; Charles imagines Lehnsherr’s cock, thick and hot, and suddenly, Charles’ skin is burning with desire, heat pooling low in his belly.

And somehow, the impropriety of the situation, the _wrongness_ of it -- of Charles thinking about his friend’s stepfather, a man no less than twenty years older than Charles, a man with large hands and rippling muscles and a _cock_ , oh Jesus Christ -- makes Charles’ toes curl, his stomach clenching with unmistakable lust.

“Oh,” Charles breathes out, buries his face in his pillow. Charles feels the blush spreading down his neck, across his shoulders and down his chest, the heat ubiquitous; every nerve in his body is on _fire_ , his skin sensitive to every rasp of his sheets against his skin --

Charles bites down on his pillow to keep from shouting Lehnsherr’s name as he comes.

For a minute or so, Charles lies there, face smothered into his pillow, one hand still curled around his limp cock. His mind is blissfully empty.

By the time Charles has found enough energy within himself to reach for a tissue, the doubt has begun to creep back into his mind.

Your friend’s stepfather, a voice in the back of his head reminds him. I’m a teenager, Charles tells it, I tend to sexualize everything.

Just a fantasy, Charles thinks dumbly, ignores the stab of compunction low in his belly.

-

School is dull as always, the clock moving impossibly slow as Charles sits in biology, next to his lab partner.

Aforementioned lab partner doodles in his notebook as Ms. MacTaggert lectures on about ecological niches and interspecies competition.

“You don’t call him dad,” Charles remarks, under his breath so as not to be overheard.

Alex looks up for a moment, pencil hovering over his notebook. Then he seems to remember Charles’ question. Alex shrugs. “Why should I?” He turns back to his lurid depiction of Scott Summers as a stick-figure being eaten by something resembling a bear.

The bell rings and MacTaggert’s fifth period biology class begins packing up hastily.

“See you after school then?” Alex asks Charles.

Charles nods, lost in thought.

Alex leaves in a hurry, stuffing his books in his bag to catch up with his other lacrosse teammates, leaving Charles to make his way to the cafeteria a little more slowly.

Charles eats lunch with Hank, who’s animatedly discussing a regional science fair project.

“You seem distracted today,” Hank finally says, after a ten-minute monologue that Charles half-listened to.

“Just a bit,” Charles forces himself to smile. Hank nods at this, but his eyes dart across the cafeteria to where Alex sits with his lacrosse friends.

Charles and Alex have decided to work on the project again, and Alex offers his house as a place to work once more.

As Scott Summers drives his brother and Charles Xavier home that afternoon, the Summers boys begin arguing over football and lacrosse again, each one vehemently defending his respective sport.

Having heard this argument a thousand times before, Charles tunes the two of them out, turns his head toward the glass window of the backseat.

A film of dust coats the window, even on the inside. Probably because Alex has a habit of rolling down the windows, Charles concludes. He runs a finger down the layer of dust.

Lehnsherr’s car is absent again as Scott pulls into the ashen driveway.

Charles swings the backseat door open and feels the heat rolling off the concrete in palpable waves.

“Thanks for the ride,” he tells Scott, who’s already peeling out of the driveway, clouds of dust billowing in his wake.

Charles isn’t sure who thought that meeting at Alex’s house would be a productive thing to do, but he decides that it wasn’t him.

Several hours pass before Charles and Alex even open their backpacks, hours spent rustling through Scott’s things and messing around in the backyard.

The sun melts into something amber and warm by the time Lehnsherr pulls up, sinking below the horizon and staining the sky with the last golden dregs of sunlight. Alex doesn’t make any move back inside though, even as the two boys hear Lehnsherr’s car slamming shut.

“Try again!” Alex insists, holding up a lacrosse ball in his hand for Charles to see.

Charles tightens his grip on the lacrosse stick and squeezes his eyes shut, flailing a bit.

“Not bad,” a third voice says, and Charles cracks open his eyes to see the lacrosse ball nestled in the net of the lacrosse stick.

Charles lets out an exclamation of joy at that, turning to meet Alex’s exuberant expression.

“Not bad,” Alex echoes his stepfather, but his mouth curls into a knowing smile.

Lehnsherr has pushed out the screen door leading to the backyard and is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, feet bare. A jolt of heat runs through Charles’ body like lightning splitting a dark sky into pieces; Charles’ breath catches in his throat as he remembers thinking of Lehnsherr last night, and feels the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles feels the need to dip his chin slightly in greeting.

Lehnsherr’s lips quirk in acknowledgement before he turns to address Alex.

“It’s getting late,” Lehnsherr comments, unfolding his arms from where they crossed his chest. Lehnsherr slides his hands into his pockets, stretching back to reveal the flash of a belt buckle. Charles tears his gaze away. “Either I drive Xavier home or he stays the night and we heat something up for dinner.”

And when Alex turns to face Charles, his expression is so hopeful that Charles can’t bring himself to say no.

Charles figures that his mother doesn’t care -- or won’t notice -- Charles’ absence at the house for one night. He finds himself sitting next to Alex on the floor of the latter boy’s bedroom, their knees bumping amicably as they lean back against the side of Alex’s bed.

“Scott’s staying at a friend’s house tonight,” Alex explains as he stabs a bit of his microwave dinner with a plastic fork.

“It’s nice of you to let me stay the night,” Charles hears himself say. “Thank you.”

Alex shrugs, “Erik’s pretty lenient about having friends over. But,” he shovels macaroni and cheese into his mouth and chews enthusiastically for a moment, then continues, “Everyone usually goes to Darwin’s house, ‘cus he’s captain.”

Charles makes a neutral noise, partially because he’s unsure of how to respond to sports-related comments, and partially because he doesn’t really have anything else to say.

They spend the rest of the evening discussing school and lacrosse and how much of a dick Scott is, until Alex’s eyes droop and Charles can’t fight the yawns any longer.

“Maybe next time, you can bring your friend -- the one with the glasses,” Alex remarks off-handedly, and Charles fights the impulse to smile.

They settle in soon after that; Alex slides open the bedroom window to let in cool air and Charles shrugs into one of Alex’s old shirts and strips down to his boxers. Alex is out within minutes, his breathing, heavy and even, audible even over the hum of the fan.

Sleep, however, does not come as easily to Charles as it does to Alex.

It’s too hot for bed sheets -- the house is still warm and stuffy -- so Charles kicks Scott’s sheets to the foot of the bed, spreading his arms and legs across the mattress. Charles stares, unseeing, at the ceiling.

Through the window wafts the quiet hoot of an owl and the quiet susurration of leaves rustling in a breeze. Charles thinks he hears the scratch of a chair being pushed against the floor; Charles thinks that that was probably Lehnsherr, hunching over his desk in the study. Charles imagines Lehnsherr sitting at the desk, night after night, working on his taxes or his bills or his work or whatever. Charles wonders if Alex will end up working like his father; perhaps Alex will take a job at the autoshop on the other side of the highway and wind up never leaving this sprawl of suburbia.

Charles squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep.

But Scott’s mattress is too soft, his pillow oddly lumpy. Charles doesn’t know how long he lies there, willing himself to succumb to sleep.

The carpet is warm under Charles’ bare feet as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, making his way out of the room in search of a glass of warm water; perhaps that will settle his stomach and Charles will finally fall asleep.

The lights of the kitchen flicker for a moment before turning on completely, flooding the room with white light. Charles’ bare feet are completely silent against the linoleum tiles.

He’s careful to open the cupboards quietly, pulling out a mug without so much as a clink of ceramic against ceramic.

Charles has water in the mug and the mug in the microwave; he’s leaning against the stove, which lies underneath the microwave, his hands digging into the handles of the oven when he hears, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Charles whips around.

In the white light of the kitchen, Lehnsherr’s skin looks almost pale and washed-out. Charles can’t help but glance at the shapely plane of Lehnsherr’s bare chest, the flat line of his stomach, and the way his worn jeans are slung low on his hips.

“I -- ” Charles manages. “No, not exactly. I thought I’d -- ” Charles glances at the mug rotating in the microwave, “Sometimes warm water helps me sleep.”

“Right,” Lehnsherr says, walking around the kitchen island. As he walks past Charles, Charles catches the smell of clean sweat and alcohol. Lehnsherr’s hair is a little mussed up in the back, and there’s a smattering of freckles across the span of Lehnsherr’s shoulders. Charles’ mouth goes completely dry, and his palms begin to moisten.

Lehnsherr swings open the refrigerator and pulls out a liter of soda, sets it onto the countertop. The refrigerator door begins to swing shut of its own accord, but Lehnsherr nudges it with his hip to ensure that it closes snugly, revealing the ridge of a hipbone in the process, and Charles has to jerk his eyes away.

The rumble of the microwave is the only sound that fills the kitchen for a moment.

Then, Lehnsherr strides closer to Charles -- Charles can see it out of the corner of his eye -- and the blood in Charles’ veins solidifies. He tightens his grip on the handle of the oven. Charles thinks of coagulation and hemophilia and Rasputin, anything to calm his frantic heart as Lehnsherr comes dangerously close.

“Don’t let the microwave run down to zero,” Lehnsherr says impassively, and Charles feels the hot press of Erik’s bare shoulder against his own clothed one as the man nudges Charles to the side, reaching up to open the microwave just before the timer stops. “It’ll beep and wake up Alex.”

Lehnsherr reaches up to grab the mug of steaming water then, and Charles’ gaze is drawn to the drooping waistline of Lehnsherr’s jeans -- past the shapely muscles of Lehnsherr’s shoulders and back and the tantalizing curve of his spine -- which are pulled snug over his arse, revealing twin Venus dimples.

“Of course,” Charles hears himself say. “My bad.” His voice cracks on the last word and Charles feels himself flush with embarrassment.

If Lehnsherr notices, he doesn’t say anything; the man simply turns around with the mug in hand, proffering it to Charles.

Charles reaches out to grab the mug before hissing and yanking his hand back.

“Careful,” Lehnsherr says, and he almost seems amused, his eyes glinting. “It’s hot.”

“I realized that,” Charles grimaces, resolutely does not look at anything other than Lehnsherr’s face.

Lehnsherr makes a low noise of acknowledgement. He leans forward then, and Charles’ olfactory senses are flooded with that same delicious cocktail -- a mix of clean sweat, cigarette smoke, and alcohol -- almost overwhelmingly masculine. A soft click fills the air as Lehnsherr sets the steaming mug onto the countertop behind Charles. Charles can’t stop looking at the breadth of Lehnsherr’s tan shoulders, the shape of his clavicles.

Just a fantasy, Charles thinks to himself, as Lehnsherr turns away.

The man turns and pulls a plastic cup out of the dishwasher. As he passes Charles to pick up his liter of soda, Lehnsherr’s elbow brushes against Charles’ arm almost casually.

As Lehnsherr leaves the kitchen, he offers a quick, “See you tomorrow, Xavier.”

“Good night,” Charles forces himself to answer.

Just a fantasy.

-

It is surprisingly easy to grow close to Alex Summers.

Although, then again, it was never hard for Charles to make friends; he just never tried.

The boys and girls at his small high school never piqued his interest; they all are interested in Friday night football games and soccer in empty parks. They’re interested in continuing life here -- in this dreadfully soporific town that is full of ancient textbooks and highway noise.

Charles has said it before and he’ll say it many, many times again between now and his impending graduation: he wants out.

Charles wants to get out of this damned town, to leave behind the repetitive monotony of empty houses and bleached clothes and sprawling asphalt and the omnipresent _dust --_ the dust, which covers everything in a gritty film, making every smooth surface rough to the touch.

And oh God, Charles wants.

He wants to leave, he wants to change, he wants _more_. Charles is young and Charles is insatiable; Charles is hungry and he wants the world.

But not yet, no. No, there is time still -- mornings to be spent enduring the endless summer heat, afternoons to be spent meandering through the endless stretch of sun-bleached pavement, evenings to be spent finishing endless application essays.

Which is why Charles finds himself drifting towards Alex Summers more and more often. There’s something about the Summers boy -- his careless demeanor, easy-going mentality, single-minded tendencies -- that allows Charles to pause and breathe.

Obviously though, that isn’t the only reason why Charles begins to frequent the Lehnsherr-Summers household so often in the following weeks.

Charles learns that the grass in Alex’s backyard is dying and brittle, yellowed by the sun and dried out by the wind. It is warm and tough underneath Charles’ bare feet but Charles doesn’t mind.

Around the perimeter of the backyard is a wooden fence: not the white picket kind, but the scrap wood kind, uneven planks cut to fit -- not perfect but good enough -- nailed together by a pair of hard-working hands, not a whirring machine.

The edge of said fence that is farthest from the house serves as a barrier between Lehnsherr’s property and the shallow ravine that dips into a canyon beyond the property line.

The last bit of sunlight still warms the earth and the air, the latter of which ruffles Charles’ hair, lifts the tattered hem of his cotton shirt, and nips at his ruddy cheeks. A swath of trees in the canyon sways slightly. It is evening time.

As idyllic as the setting is, however, the serenity is disturbed by the Summers boys and Charles, the three of them hooting and hollering. They toss a lacrosse ball between the three of them, lobbing the plastic thing with their lacrosse sticks.

Alex is obviously dominating the game; Scott and Charles have to try twice as hard to keep up with the younger Summers brother. Scott, at least, makes up for his lack of experience with his unbridled aggression; he makes up rules and whacks his lacrosse stick around on a whim. Charles, on the other hand, has neither experience nor aggression, but makes up for it with enough sportsmanship for the three of them combined.

Lehnsherr has unlocked the gardening shed to rummage around, but ends up leaning in the empty doorway to watch the boys, probably ensuring that they don’t end up brawling in the dirt.

At one point, Scott lobs the ball so forcefully, Charles has to hold up his lacrosse stick like a baseball bat, swatting at the projectile object to keep it from hitting him.

His lacrosse stick fails to hit anything besides air, and at this, Scott howls with delight, dropping his lacrosse stick and physically doubling over with laughter. Alex shakes his head good-naturedly, jogging forward to scoop up the fallen ball and place it into the net of his lacrosse stick. Lehnsherr chuckles.

Charles grins self-deprecatingly. “Sports aren’t exactly my thing,” he manages over Scott’s uproarious laughter.

Alex groans to Scott, “Shut up.”

“Did you see his face?” Scott gasps for air, lifting his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes.

Charles doesn’t mind the laughing, honestly, and he’s about to open his mouth to say so when Lehnsherr’s shadow falls over him.

“Your posture’s horrible,” Lehnsherr remarks, his voice low and gravelly. Charles’ heart lurches in his ribcage as Lehnsherr steps closer.

“Be quiet,” Alex says, tossing the lacrosse ball at Scott’s head, the two of them immersed in their own argument. But Scott chooses that moment to double over once more, laughing into his knees, which sends the lacrosse ball straight over the fence into the canyon.

“I’ve never played before,” Charles hears himself say. And he feels himself flush, a slow, delicious burn spreading over his cheeks and down his chest.

Lehnsherr doesn’t seem to see that, though, because his right hand lifts suddenly -- and oh, he stands _close_ : Charles can see the faint beads of sweat around Lehnsherr’s throat, can see the way his thin cotton shirt barely covers the jut of his belt -- and Lehnsherr’s hand is cradling Charles’ shoulder, bringing Charles’ arm in closer to his chest. “You have to bring your arms close to your chest,” Lehnsherr rumbles, and Charles licks his lips almost reflexively, tightens his grip on the lacrosse stick.

“You have to help me get it!” Alex calls to Scott, but Charles can’t be bothered to turn and watch the boys go jumping over the fence in search of the lacrosse ball. Instead, he turns slightly, left foot sliding across the dust and dirt so that Charles sidles up a little closer to Lehnsherr. Charles tucks in his elbow as an afterthought.

“Like that?” Charles breathes out, and Lehnsherr’s eyelashes are impossibly dark, fanning across his tan cheek. Lehnsherr takes another step closer, his expression inscrutable. Charles can feel the heat emanating from his body.

In a slow slide, Lehnsherr moves his hand from Charles’ shoulder to Charles’ elbow, his calloused palms warm against Charles’ cool skin; Lehnsherr’s other hand reaches out to wrap two fingers around Charles’ wrist, adjusting Charles’ grip on the lacrosse stick.

The palm around Charles’ elbow is big -- huge -- around Charles’ skinny bones; Charles feels scrawny in comparison. Lehnsherr’s fingers wrap neatly around Charles’ wrist and Charles wonders if Lehnsherr can feel his pulse hammering.

Charles’ mind recalls that night that Lehnsherr had stood in the kitchen -- his chiseled chest and his curved spine and the Venus dimples --

“Like this,” says Lehnsherr, and it may be Charles’ imagination, but it seems as though Lehnsherr’s eyes darken, his voice dropping even lower.

And this, Charles decides, this is not the way a father touches his son’s friend, this is not the way a man touches a boy; this is a way a lover holds his beloved.

But then again, what does Charles know about a lover’s embrace?

Heat spreads over Charles’ cheeks and chest, burns like a conflagration in his skin from the proximity to Lehnsherr.

And this is when it no longer feels like a fantasy.

Charles can’t bring himself to care about the fact that Scott and Alex could be romping back over the fence any moment now; Charles wants and Lehnsherr is right here, right fucking here –

“And stand with your feet like -- ” Lehnsherr brings one hand down to Charles’ waist, one enormous hand pressing against Charles’ thin hipbone and adjusting Charles’ stance slightly. Even through the material of Charles’ trousers, Lehnsherr’s palm is warm.

Charles sways with the movement, his hips angling towards Lehnsherr’s and his veins thrum with desire --

“Like that,” says Lehnsherr and Charles dares to lift his gaze from where it rests on Lehnsherr’s hand around his wrist; Charles lifts his gaze and for some reason, he can’t meet Lehnsherr’s eyes. No, Charles’ gaze is drawn to Lehnsherr’s mouth and Charles is _staring_ , Jesus Christ, Lehnsherr’s mouth --

“Try again,” Lehnsherr rumbles, pulling his arms back and stepping away from Charles just as Alex and Scott scramble over the fence, faces flushed but triumphant.

Cool air rushes in to take the place that Lehnsherr’s hands occupied a second ago -- cool air against Charles’ wrist, cool air against Charles’ shoulder, cool air against Charles’ elbow, and cool air against Charles’ hip.

“Try again!” Alex all but shouts at Charles, his words an eerie echo of those of his stepfather. Scott hoots with laughter as Alex lobs the ball at Charles.

Charles misses horrendously, but this time, Lehnsherr remains silent.

Scott doesn’t have work today, so he offers to drive Charles home. Throughout the car ride and the rest of the evening, Charles can’t quash the feeling of anticipation in his gut. It feels like his insides are trying to worm their way out of his stomach, even late that night when Charles lies on his mattress.

Charles doesn’t sleep until much, much later that night, after three fingers slip out of his arse and his other hand falls from his spent cock, Lehnsherr’s name written over Charles’ lips.

-

As the due date approaches, Charles and Alex eventually begin to work on their project.

A few days later, Charles finds himself scrambling through Alex’s room, trying to pick up his papers that have been strewn across the floor.

“I’ll be done in a second!” Charles calls out, “Just let me take these papers -- ”

“I told you,” Alex stalks out of the bathroom crossly, tugging his lacrosse jersey on, “Just finish writing up the summary and then Erik’ll drive you home once you’re done.”

“But I don’t want to be a bother,” protests Charles for the second time that evening, “Scott’s driving you to practice -- he can just drop me off at my house before he goes to work.”

“I have to be at practice in five minutes,” Alex tugs his lacrosse gear into his backpack, “Take your time, Charles. Finish the summary, glue it to the board, and then Erik will drive you home when you’re done.”

The two of them argue for another moment before Scott pops his head into the doorway. “You’re going to be late,” he informs Alex gleefully and Alex gives Charles a pointed look.

Charles rolls his eyes and straightens up. “Fine, then.”

“See you tomorrow, Charles!” Alex calls as he leaves the house.

Even from inside Alex’s room, Charles can hear Scott’s engine spluttering as the two Summers boys pull out of the driveway.

Charles works for another fifteen minutes or so, crossing out a few sentences in the rough draft of their project and rewriting it onto construction paper, before he finally finishes.

Lehnsherr, Charles thinks, and almost immediately, his stomach twists.

Scott and Alex’s stepfather is in the living room, sitting on the couch.

In the last rays of sunlight, Lehnsherr’s hair is almost golden. The window shutters are partially open, allowing thick blades of light to cut across the worn couch and the brown carpet of the living room.

The TV is on mute, and as Charles pads past the kitchen, he can only see the back of Lehnsherr’s head. A little to the right of the couch is a cluttered table, whose surface is nearly entirely covered by pencils and pens and hand sanitizer and lotion and junk.

Charles is moving around the left arm of the couch, his mouth halfway open to say that he really is sorry, but if it isn’t any trouble, could you please drive me back home? when Lehnsherr asks, “How’s the project going?”

Lehnsherr doesn’t look at Charles when he speaks, his face still turned towards the television, but the man shifts a bit on the couch, scooting to the right.

And Charles’ stomach churns as he walks forward, boldly sits in the spot that Lehnsherr has left for him.

“Quite well, actually,” Charles replies slowly. The couch dips slightly under Charles’ weight and he perches awkwardly with his right leg folded in underneath himself. Belatedly, Charles realizes that Lehnsherr has his arm up, left palm cupping the back of the couch.

Charles holds up the paper in one hand. “We’ve nearly finished the writing portion; we just have to finish -- ”

At this moment, Charles chooses to lean forward slightly, so as to adjust himself to a more comfortable position. In doing so, however, Charles’ right knee brushes against Lehnsherr’s thigh and Charles stops midsentence. Lehnsherr’s still watching the TV, giving no outward indication of anything, really, and so Charles clears his throat and tries again.

“We just have to finish typing everything up. Then we print it out and -- ”

And then, Lehnsherr moves his left leg, no more than an inch, but the motion presses his thigh firmly against Charles’ knee and the knot in Charles’ stomach tightens his viscera in a vice-like grip.

“And glue it onto the poster,” Charles finishes. Charles looks down at the paper in his lap -- Alex Summers and Charles Xavier printed neatly in the top right-hand corner -- and then leans back into the sofa.

Charles’ shoulder blades press against the inside of Lehnsherr’s arm. Charles’ mouth dries as Lehnsherr slowly curls his left hand around Charles’ shoulder and the man is still staring straight ahead, staring at the muted television. Lehnsherr’s mouth is pressed into a tight line and Charles wonders how he kisses, how Lehnsherr’s stubble would feel against his skin; these are not new imaginings but they feel dangerous here, when Charles is so close --

Five pinpoints of heat press into Charles’ shoulder and Charles exhales shakily as he leans back all the way. Lehnsherr’s palm tightens around Charles’ arm and Charles’ heart pounds quick in his chest. Charles is thinking about Lehnsherr’s mouth, Lehnsherr’s hands, Lehnsherr’s cock -- his thoughts are a litany of _see kiss touch feel fuck_ \--

As Lehnsherr wraps his arm fully around Charles’ shoulders, slow and deliberate, Charles can’t stop his breathing from becoming ragged.

There’s a soft click as Lehnsherr turns off the TV with his other hand, and then that hand is on Charles’ knee, fingers spread across Charles’ denim jeans and Charles’ breath hitches.

Finally, _finally_ , Lehnsherr turns away from the television screen.

His eyes are dark and his expression is unreadable; Charles can’t look away from his mouth and good God, Lehnsherr is leaning in and Charles thinks, _he’s going to kiss me -- he’s going to_ \--

Lehnsherr’s mouth is dry against Charles and Charles can’t move; he’s spent so long thinking about this moment that it feels unreal; Charles can't comprehend --

And then the arm around Charles’ shoulders shifts, pulling Charles closer.

Charles has kissed before -- the chaste meeting of mouths, the playful nip of teeth against skin; Charles’ eyes open so he can see an eyelash on a cheek -- but this is nothing like anything Charles has ever experienced before.

This is _thrilling_ and this is dangerous and Charles’ mind is overwhelmed with the fact that Lehnsherr is _kissing_ him, over and over, the brief press of his mouth against Charles’ own; he briefly registers the rough scratch of stubble against his chin and the wetness of the inside of Lehnsherr’s lip.

 _He’s kissing me_ , Charles thinks to himself, it still feels surreal.

Then the hand on Charles’ knee slides up his leg and suddenly it’s as if Charles’ brain finally _clicks_ ; he finally realizes that this is real and that that is Lehnsherr’s calloused hand sliding up his thigh --

Then Lehnsherr’s leaning forward, the couch creaking underneath them, bringing Charles closer and Charles remains pliant as Lehnsherr pushes him back onto the couch.

Charles’ back hits the cushions of the couch with a soft plop, his knees knocking together, and Lehnsherr pulls back long enough for Charles to see the way his eyes have dilated. Charles’ heart is still ramming in his chest and his elbows push against the worn material of the couch, his shoes dig into the cushions as he shuffles backwards to accommodate for Lehnsherr’s long limbs.

From this new angle, Charles can see that the sunlight that spills into the room is now thick and amber, blurring the edges of his vision. Lehnsherr’s hand squeezes Charles’ thigh and Charles’ mouth falls slack, lips parting wordlessly as Lehnsherr spreads Charles’ legs, scooting forward to take the space in between them. Charles blinks rapidly, tries to clear his eyes because he’s been wanting for so long and he can’t miss anything now.

Lehnsherr doesn’t say a word; the living room is completely silent save for the rustle of trees that wafts through the open screen door -- Charles can see their hazy shadows, limned in the golden light of the sun.

And then Charles’ senses are overloaded as Lehnsherr leans forward --

Suddenly, he feels Lehnsherr’s tongue plunging into his mouth -- _soft smooth cool wet --_ one of Lehnsherr’s hands reaching up his shirt, palm flat against Charles skin -- _rough calloused hot huge --_ the other smoothing up his thigh to his belt; and Charles tastes his own chapstick and Lehnsherr’s cigarette smoke at the back of his throat; Charles hears the wet noises of their mouths meeting and parting and meeting and parting, and couch creaking underneath their combined weight; Charles sees the golden light of the setting sun then quickly squeezes his eyes shut.

For a moment, Charles doesn’t know what to do; he lies there, pliant, as Lehnsherr kisses him, light-headed and giddy and overwhelmed by the touch, the taste, the feel of it.

Then Lehnsherr sinks down, his weight resting on top of Charles, smothering him into the couch cushions, their hips aligning.

As Lehnsherr’s crotch brushes against Charles’, Charles involuntarily bucks his hips upwards, automatically searching for more. Lehnsherr squeezes Charles’ hipbone in response and Charles all but surges up, one hand coming up to wrap around Lehnsherr’s back, clutching desperately at his shoulders, and the other trailing down Lehnsherr’s chest. Now, more than ever before, Charles realizes how much _bigger_ Lehnsherr is, as the man is all but draped across Charles, his weight pressing him down into the couch.

Hips rocking, Charles curves his spine up shamelessly, his cock already half hard in his pants. It’s almost too much friction as Lehnsherr presses down and Charles arches up; it feels so _good_ \--

Charles thinks he can feel the press of Lehnsherr’s hipbones into his thighs, but he can’t stop to consider it because Lehnsherr’s hand has wandered up Charles’ chest, his palm hot against Charles’ skin and the calloused tips of his fingers brushing back and forth against the bumps of Charles’ ribs. A large thumb presses down on Charles’ nipple and Charles’ nails catch on the back of Lehnsherr’s shirt as his grip on Lehnsherr’s shoulders tightens reflexively.

It feels like this all happened in a second, because then, as soon as Charles begins reciprocating to Lehnsherr’s touch, Lehnsherr pulls his face away from Charles, breaking their kiss.

Charles’ eyes snap open. Lehnsherr is still close; he leans in now to press their foreheads together, noses bumping, but his hand slips out from underneath Charles’ shirt and begins tugging at Charles’ belt insistently.

And, God help him, Charles’ brain stutters to a complete halt as the belt clicks open, leather rasping against the material of Charles’ pants as Lehnsherr tugs the belt out of its belt loops.

Charles wants to open his mouth and say something but neither of them has spoken so far and Charles isn’t inclined to break the silence now; besides, Lehnsherr’s already leaning forward again, his eyes dark as their mouths meet in a wet kiss.

Lehnsherr’s tongue is smooth in Charles’ mouth, tastes faintly of smoke.

Then Lehnsherr drags Charles’ pants and underwear down, and it’s this -- the familiar drag of rough fabric against Charles’ thighs -- that causes him to shudder. The sensation -- Charles feels it every morning he pulls on his jeans for school and every night before he shucks them for sleep -- is so normal in a setting Charles had only dreamed of before.

We’re going to have sex, Charles thinks dumbly.

Charles feels his cock spring forward as he shuffles slightly, pushing his pants and underwear down to his ankles. In the back of Charles’ mind, he becomes cognizant of the fact that he’s still wearing his shoes.

The ragged sound of panting fills the room, and Charles thinks that it is him who is making the noises. The coarse drag of Lehnsherr’s jeans against Charles’ hard cock is painful; but at the same, it causes Charles’ toes to curl in his shoes, his stomach clenching deliciously at the friction.

Lehnsherr kisses him still, his tongue forcibly fucking Charles’ mouth, even as the man pushes up Charles’ shirt to his armpits, runs his hands over Charles’ smooth, exposed skin -- and Charles’ heart flutters in his chest, a robin redbreast beating its weak wings in his ribcage. The cool air brushes gently against Charles’ skin, and he feels exposed -- his shirt rucked up around his armpits, his pants pushed down to his ankles -- and it feels _thrilling_ \--

The metal of Lehnsherr’s belt is cold against Charles’ waist and his jeans and shirt scratch the sensitive skin of Charles’ thighs and belly but Charles doesn’t care; it’s finally happening and Charles is here, this is happening _now_ , this is real and --

And we’re going to have sex, Charles thinks again, as Lehnsherr nips on Charles’ tongue and _oh_ , that makes Charles’ cock twitch.

Almost as quick as it went in, Lehnsherr’s tongue slips out of Charles’ mouth, and Charles blinks his eyes open to see Lehnsherr lean back and snatch up the plastic bottle of lotion from the cluttered coffee table.

If time is an arrow, Charles’ brain stutters and stumbles along the shaft, skipping over segments of time. Lehnsherr is leaning back over Charles now and he barely has time to acknowledge the fact that Lehnsherr’s hands -- oh his hands, wide and large and calloused -- are planting themselves on Charles’ thighs before he sees a shock of brown hair, and then Lehnsherr’s mouth is on his again.

Lehnsherr is everywhere -- his sharp, distinctive scent in Charles’ lungs, his warm tongue in Charles’ mouth, his rough hands on Charles’ sensitive thighs -- and Charles tries to _feel_. He reaches up tentatively to run eight fingers through Lehnsherr’s hair, which is coarse to the touch, and Lehnsherr positively _growls_ , his torso pushing into Charles’ body.

And then Charles’ brain must stutter again because the next second, Lehnsherr’s mouth is on Charles’ neck, his tongue hot and wet against Charles’ bare skin. The couch creaks as Lehnsherr shifts his waist, cocking his hips to the side; the sound of metal clinking fills the room as Lehnsherr undoes his belt --

Charles blinks and his brain stumbles; Lehnsherr’s got his cock out and it’s big and thick from where it juts out from a dark thatch of hair --

Charles blinks and his brain stutters; then the plastic cap of the lotion bottle opens with a click; Charles watches as Lehnsherr slicks up four fingers, and then --

Charles blinks and then Lehnsherr’s pressing his open mouth against Charles’ temple, hot breath billowing against Charles’ cheek as the tips of two fingers brush against Charles’ hole.

Charles blinks and there’re three slick fingers working him open. He feels open and vulnerable; his ankles knock together where they’re bound by his pants, but his knees are spread wide and Lehnsherr has planted himself right between them.

Over Lehnsherr’s shoulder, Charles sees darkness beginning to creep into the living room over Lehnsherr’s shoulder. Lehnsherr’s mouth, warm and damp, presses against his hair still.

Charles breathes shallowly, his hands twisting slowly into Lehnsherr’s hair as Lehnsherr’s fingers scissor him open.

_We’re going to --_

Charles can’t help it; when the tip of Lehnsherr’s cock nudges against him, Charles lets out something between a breathy exhalation and a shudder. Consequently, Lehnsherr shifts -- just slightly -- and the head of his prick slips out.

The room is silent, soft, and still, save for the sounds of their ragged breathing as Lehnsherr’s cock pushes against Charles a second time. Charles’ mouth falls open naturally as Lehnsherr’s cock slides in. A soft grunt rumbles in Lehnsherr’s chest: Charles can feel it, rather than hear it.

Charles feels full, stretched tight -- he almost feels overwhelmed --

“Charles,” he thinks he hears, but he can’t be sure.

Charles blinks and then Lehnsherr’s moving. Even in the growing darkness, Charles can make out the line of his back, the ridges of his spine under that skin-tight, cotton shirt. It almost feels as though he’s having an out-of-body experience: Charles can see the fluid ripples of Lehnsherr’s spine, as he moves in a sinuous curve and as Charles’ body rides the repercussions. Charles slides one hand between their rocking bodies to tug quickly at his own erection.

Then arousal spikes through Charles’ blood; he pants hard, blinks the sweat out of his eyes.

The adrenaline rushing through his veins is thrilling; Charles feels _alive_ \--

Charles blinks and his orgasm hits him like a surprise, embarrassingly fast, and his mouth falls into an open, organic shape, the tense muscles in his stomach unfurl like fists unfurl into fingers. Lehnsherr fucks him through it, his pace relentless, his teeth pressed snug against the supple skin of Charles’ neck.

And then, suddenly, as Charles comes to, he realizes that -- underneath them -- the couch is creaking with their combined weight. He hears Lehnsherr’s staccato breaths and feels the sharp bite of Lehnsherr’s nails against the skin of his hips. It’s as if his brain has finally caught up in the moment, his senses taking in his surroundings.

Sweat drips down his back -- Charles can feel it -- and his left elbow keeps slipping on the worn material of the couch; Charles’ entire back scratches against the cushions as Lehnsherr forcibly fucks him, every undulation of Lehnsherr’s spine pushing Charles up the couch, only to have his weight pull him down; his chin digs into his chest at an uncomfortable angle because of the way he’s arranged on the couch -- his head pressed up against the armrest and the back of his neck against the seat cushion -- but it’s _good_.

It’s imperfect but it’s _good_. It’s exhilarating and it’s addictive: the slow, fluid curl of Lehnsherr’s body against Charles’ own and the delicious drag of Lehnsherr’s shirt against Charles’ flaccid cock. Now, Charles feels everything and he doesn’t want it to stop; he keeps his eyes wide open, drinks in every sensual feeling like parched soil under the first spring rain.

But the room, even though the sun has gone down and the sky is inky outside, is sweltering and Charles’ hair is damp with perspiration; sweat trickles down his forehead and into his eyes --

Charles blinks and then Erik’s mouth falls open, his eyebrows furrowed and his spine arched into a beautiful curve.

Lehnsherr’s hips stutter once more, and then his head droops, falling onto Charles’ shoulder.

Charles feels sticky and spent; the air is uncomfortably humid and he’s pretty sure there’s chafing on his lower back and elbow, but he presses his mouth against Lehnsherr’s temple in an echo of the man’s actions.

This, out of everything else, feels strangely intimate: Charles can taste salt and sweat on Lehnsherr’s skin, which is damp under Charles’ mouth.

The moment stretches impossibly long, long enough for their breaths -- raw and warm and wet -- to mingle without being tainted with words.

Then, the sound of rubber tires rumbling along asphalt wafts in through the screen door, and Charles jolts.

Lehnsherr is up in the blink of an eye; he’s tugging up Charles’ pants, pulling Charles off the couch into a standing position. The engine of the car rumbles past, ambling along the road, past Lehnsherr’s house, but nevertheless, the moment has ended.

Charles yanks his shirt down and resolutely refuses to blush as he does up his trousers, fingers fumbling despite his best attempts to control them.

 _I just had sex with Erik Lehnsherr_ , he thinks to himself, and as he stares down at his trembling fingers, he feels the weight of someone’s gaze on him.

Charles looks up in time to see the corner of Lehnsherr’s pale mouth before it crushes against his; at the same, one of Lehnsherr’s hands covers the placket of Charles’ pants, deftly doing up the button and zip.

He can’t help it; Charles lets out a muffled noise of surprise that quickly transforms into a whimper as Lehnsherr’s teeth knead Charles’ bottom lip and Lehnsherr’s hand presses firmly against Charles’ trousers, against his flaccid cock.

The movement sends a tendril of heat down Charles’ spine, and he’s forced to lean his head back as Lehnsherr steps closer, accentuating their height difference. Lehnsherr’s hand smooths across the zip of Charles’ pants, then curls around his hip, gently pushing him back until he presses against the arm of the couch.

And Charles feels drunk with exhilaration, his head spinning a bit as Lehnsherr kisses him harder. For a blissful moment, he forgets where he is.

The sound of the garage open jerks Charles back to reality; he pulls back, flushing, tugging self-consciously on his shirt. Lehnsherr watches him -- Charles can feel the weight of his gaze -- and it should feel strange, but it really doesn’t.

Charles blinks and the front door is slamming open.

“I told you,” Scott is shouting at his brother, and Lehnsherr’s turned on the TV again, sitting down and watching muted reruns apathetically: Charles keeps losing segments of time. His mouth is strangely dry and tastes faintly of ash or dust -- he can’t seem to tell the difference between the two.

“Hey,” Alex nudges Charles, where he still stands by the couch arm, “Sorry I made you work for so long -- I didn’t think you’d take so long -- ”

“It’s fine,” Charles says, almost reflexively, smiling. He hopes to God his mouth isn’t as swollen as it feels. “I just took my time, is all.”

Charles blinks and then Scott’s offering to drive him home; he blinks and then the Summers boys are herding him out the door; they’re waving bye to Lehnsherr and the man raises one hand in greeting; his brain stutters -- everything feels like it’s happening in a dreamlike sequence, but this can’t be real; how could this possibly be real?

Scott Summers’ car splutters pathetically as Scott peels out of the driveway; Charles sits in the backseat, behind Alex, who sits in the passenger seat, the car rumbling underneath them and clouds of dust swirling in their wake as they drive into the night.

-

Charles comes home to an empty house.

Someone calls the landline but Charles lets it go to voicemail; the tinny, automated voice echoes oddly in the empty house.

Charles goes upstairs and pulls out his homework. He studies.

Life goes on.

-

Somewhere though, deep deep inside of him, Charles knows that there is no way that this could not end badly --

(Charles thinks of Alex’s open and bright expression that first time that Charles had tried on Scott’s enormous football jersey)

Because, as much as he hates to admit it, Charles is young and Charles is naïve; at the end of the day --

(Alex is Charles’ _friend_ ; he and Hank are essentially Charles’ only friends and frankly, is this worth it all?)

At the end of the day, Charles Xavier is a boy who will never be satisfied with anything less than the entire world, and Erik Lehnsherr is a man who has already felt the weight of the planet on his shoulders.  

-

In class, Alex sketches out increasingly graphic doodles of his brother in various dangerous situations. MacTaggert lectures on and Charles sighs, runs his hand along the edge of the bookshelf by his desk. His fingers come back covered with dust.

-

Eventually, Alex works up enough courage to talk to Hank.

Charles doesn’t know exactly how, but they end up at Alex’s house, Hank under the pretext of helping the two of them with biology, and it’s nice, it really is. The three of them get along fine enough, but --

But Charles has an itch, a parasite that’s burrowed under his skin and refuses to let go. It festers like a gaping wound, the edges raw and red and sore to the touch.

Perhaps that’s why -- after they clear a space in Alex’s room and unroll their sleeping bags, after they say their goodnights, and after Alex begins snoring softly -- Charles can’t fall asleep. His pulse thrums quick under his skin, his body flushed and heated in response to this -- this _urge,_ this carnal  _desire_  --

He imagines his capillaries dilating, swollen with blood and swollen with want, carrying this desire to every cell of his body.

Charles forces himself to breathe shallowly, watches the pale moonlight leak through Alex’s window shades, dripping onto the dirty carpet and pooling in the corner of the room.

Aside from Alex’s snoring and Hank’s light breathing, the room is silent; Scott is out with Jean, and will most probably not come back for the night.

Charles tries, he really does, but sleep refuses to come, not when desire thrums underneath his skin, begging to be touched.

The carpets are warm underneath Charles’ bare feet, but do nothing to mask the sound of his footfalls as he makes his way down the hallway and into the kitchen. The air here is refreshingly cool, compared to Alex’s room. Charles stretches his arms for a moment, then begins to amble over to the cupboard for a cup.

The floorboards creak when Lehnsherr pads into the kitchen; Charles spares a glance behind him before he says, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Something thick is in the air tonight, something dangerous and something heady; Charles retracts his arm from where he was reaching for a cup, turns around to lean on the counter behind him.

Lehnsherr doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are dark and narrow as he walks closer to Charles.

And Charles reaches back to clench at the counter with his hands, balancing himself as Lehnsherr steps closer.

Charles can’t stop _looking_ , can’t stop drinking in the sight before him now that he’s allowed to; his heart pounds _yes yes yes_ in his chest and his throat closes like a fist as Lehnsherr steps into the space between Charles’ feet.

This close, Charles has to tilt his head back to meet Lehnsherr’s gaze, and as Lehnsherr presses closer -- but not touching, not yet -- Charles feels his back pressing against the counter, almost curving backwards to accommodate for the girth of Lehnsherr’s shoulders, his chest.

Lehnsherr’s gaze darts down to Charles’ mouth and Charles hears his blood rushing in his ears, an ocean crashing and roaring as storms do. Lehnsherr reaches out then, runs two fingers above Charles’ waistband, along a strip of bare skin exposed from where his shirt rides up.

And Charles lunges forward, standing up on his tiptoes to press their mouths together; Charles feels his blood boil as soon as they touch, arousal flaring in his chest, in his throat, in his belly, in his cock.

He doesn’t mean to, but he lets out a low, throaty sound when Lehnsherr runs his hands down Charles’ back, down to his ass and _squeezes,_ pulling their groins together. Charles feels his cock spring up at that, and he gasps, spine arching up automatically to meet Lehnsherr.

“Shush,” Lehnsherr murmurs, but Charles can barely hear him over the rush of his blood, their heavy breathing. The drag of their cocks is dangerously addictive, and Charles blinks his eyes open to watch the sensual roll of Lehnsherr’s hips.

“Please,” he thinks he hears himself say, breathy and low.

Lehnsherr dips his head slightly to murmur, “Quiet,” right into Charles’ ear, and his toes curl at that -- a reminder that they shouldn’t be here; they shouldn’t be doing this, not when Alex and Hank are only a few rooms over --

But then Lehnsherr slides a hand into Charles’ pants and Charles’ brain nearly short-circuits; his hips reflexively buck into Lehnsherr’s palm and Charles flushes at that.

The stubble on Lehnsherr’s cheek scrapes roughly against Charles’ neck and, as he tilts his head back obligingly, he’s reminded once again of how much _more_ Lehnsherr is -- his stubble rasping and his shoulders wide and the line of his cock thick, hot, hard against Charles’ belly --

_Creak._

Lehnsherr pulls away from Charles, his eyes dilated, his mouth red and swollen and Charles’ heart accelerates in his chest, his blood positively boiling --

Wood floors creak as someone walks down the hallway; Charles jerkily yanks his pants back up and Lehnsherr runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before. Charles opens his mouth -- he doesn’t know what he wants to say; his skin is still flushed and his mouth no doubt swollen -- but Lehnsherr turns away before Charles can say a thing, his sweatpants slung tantalizing low as he pads out of the kitchen.

Charles jerks back into the moment, turning around and effectively concealing the tent in his pants while simultaneously reaching into the cupboard for a cup.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Alex yawns from the doorway. Charles refuses to shiver at his choice of words.

“Felt a bit restless,” Charles admits without turning around so that Alex won’t be able to see his flush.

-

Charles knows.

Charles knows this is a bad idea. Erik Lehnsherr is Alex’s _dad_ ; how could this possibly end well?

But Charles Xavier is insatiable: he wants and wants. He wants Erik Lehnsherr and he knows it won’t end well, but he’s going to leave this town anyway -- why should any of his actions matter when the next summer, he’ll be an ocean away?

He is a conflagration, burning everything in his path. This town is full of firewood; Charles has been the best at everything for many long years and now he wants a challenge: he wants out. But Charles is young and he is naive, and he has yet to learn his limits.

-

Alex and Charles eventually finish their project.

It takes time, and quite a bit of nagging on Charles’ part, but they finish.

On the last day that they spend together, in Alex’s room, Charles sits in the stretch of carpet between Alex and Scott’s beds, looking up at the _Truman Show_ poster that hangs crookedly above Alex’s bed. He wonders when he last went to the movie theater.

Alex is uncharacteristically quiet today, so they finish gluing their papers onto the board in relative silence, the two of them lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, Alex says something about MacTaggert but Charles doesn’t have the energy in him to listen; he nods along, smiles in the right places, but otherwise doesn’t say a word.

By the time Scott comes into their room to yell at Alex about being late to work, the two of them have finished their project. And Alex apologizes to Charles -- “I completely forgot about the time! Is it alright if -- ” -- and Charles waves him off, yes of course, he should hurry to practice before Scott yells again.

The three boys scramble out of the front door and into the driveway where Lehnsherr waits. Charles’ house is the opposite direction to the school; of course it would make sense for Scott and Alex to go to practice while Lehnsherr drives Charles home.

Alex and Scott, predictably, holler at each other as they get into the car; Lehnsherr rolls his eyes a bit and jerks his head in the direction of his car. Charles walks around the car. He opens the passenger door and he gets in, feeling oddly detached from his actions, as if someone else were directing him to sit in the seat, buckle up his seatbelt.

The ride is quiet. There’s a thick sort of tension in the car, heady and pressing. Charles turns his head towards the window. Outside, the sun has just begun to set, and bruises of dark pink and purple are smeared across the horizon.

“Do you remember the way -- ” Charles begins.

“I remember.”

And they fall silent again.

Charles wonders how his life will unfold at Oxford. Perhaps his roommate will come from the other side of the world. Perhaps he will spend his days in the genetics lab, or his nights with the coeds. Perhaps he will be the happiest he’s ever been and perhaps he will never think of this place again. It’s a startling thought, and Charles quickly clears his throat.

Lehnsherr’s car rumbles to a halt in front of the gates that lead to Charles’ house. For a moment, after the car dies down, there is silence.

“Thank you -- ” Charles begins, at the same time that Lehnsherr says, “Xavier -- ”

“For driving me back,” Charles says firmly, speaking over whatever Lehnsherr aimed to apologize for.

“It’s not a problem,” Lehnsherr responds slowly, his eyes still staring straight ahead. And then, “Charles,” Lehnsherr tries again, physically turning his head to face Charles.

Charles decides then that he doesn’t want to hear it; Charles knows what he wants. He isn’t stupid; in fact, he will graduate as valedictorian and he will go to Oxford and he will never see Erik Lehnsherr again.

Which is why Charles leans in then, over the center console to crush his mouth against Lehnsherr’s.

The man makes a noise of faint disbelief, and Charles squeezes his eyes shut, kisses harder.

The coarse drag of Lehnsherr’s stubble is achingly familiar, and Charles feels his heart reflexively accelerate in response; his body opens underneath Lehnsherr’s touch like blood blossoming from an open wound.

But then Lehnsherr reaches up -- Charles feels his enormous palm against his sternum -- and pushes Charles gently away.

“We can’t -- ” the man begins, and Charles opens his eyes in time to see the slight swell of Lehnsherr’s lip, the faint flush on his cheeks, the tumultuous conflict in his eyes. “It’s not -- ”

“Yeah,” Charles says, although he can’t stop looking at Lehnsherr’s mouth. And Charles thinks that Lehnsherr expects him to fight back, because when he opens the passenger door open, Lehnsherr’s eyes narrow in surprise. “I don’t either.”

And perhaps Charles should fight, but he’s spent too long in this town, he’s spent far too long peeling back his sunburnt skin and far too little time finding himself and his limits. So he says thank you. He says, “Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Lehnsherr,” and shuts the door.

Lehnsherr drives off in a cloud of dust, and Charles tastes cigarette smoke faintly in the back of his mouth. In that moment, the midwest feels like a hollow place.

Charles punches in the pincode and the gate opens with a groan. He goes into his house, goes upstairs to work on an essay. Life goes on.

-

(Many weeks later, after another sweltering summer has passed, Charles goes off to Oxford and runs his hand along the windowsill of his dorm. His fingertips come back clean.)


End file.
